As Tim Warrington finds, not all travellers treat their destinations with respect.
Landscapes of stunning natural beauty often leave people speechless, but not on a recent tramping holiday in the South Island.
As the rest of the hiking group remained mute, soaking in the awesome mountain scenery, the lady to my right announced that "while beautiful, it's not as spectacular as [her] designer vagina", ushering a noncommittal, half-nod and squeak from me.
It is not the first time the impropriety of travel commentary has silenced me. Not too long ago I was walking the perimeter of a mass grave at the Killing Fields in Cambodia, when a man in a grubby Juventus jersey said: "My dogs back 'ome would have a field day in 'ere — digging up all these bones." As we passed the Chankiri Tree, against which Khmer Rouge soldiers battered infants and babies, Juventus Jersey's friend, in a crumpled Singha Beer singlet, replied that at least it was better than the "boring pile of rocks" ... the temples of Angkor Wat. This and other disappointments of the lads' holiday I endured, as I followed a dozen or so paces behind, bewildered at each snigger and jeer.
And, I began to wonder, what exactly are we looking for when we travel? Sometimes we need a gentle prod to self-evaluate. Occasionally we collide spectacularly with epiphanies, like when I went to Phnom Penh. What was I doing there? What did I expect in return for the expensive plane ticket, months of planning, jetlag and the occasional dodgy cab driver or upset tummy?